


Find Your Own Heaven

by Andithiel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial of Feelings, Frottage, M/M, Monk AU that no one asked for, Monk Draco Malfoy, Monks, Mutual Pining, POV Second Person, Pilgrim Harry Potter, Pining, Poetic lemon, Religious Guilt, Resolved Sexual Tension, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Unresolved Sexual Tension, gratuitous fire references, lots of plants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-11
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:55:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22655869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andithiel/pseuds/Andithiel
Summary: Brother Draco is perfectly content with his life at the monastery, taking care of the gardens and using his knowledge of medicinal plants to help those in need. But when the severely hurt pilgrim Harry arrives his life is turned upside down, forcing him to face his deepest desires and reevaluate his relationship with the Lord.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 123





	Find Your Own Heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Etalice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etalice/gifts).



> For my lovely friend Etalice, who I cherish more than I can say. When I first read your fics and saw you on the Game of Drarry discord I was so intimidated by you, because you’re so intelligent and an amazing writer and I felt so basic. And then we somehow became friends and I discovered how supportive, generous, and kind you are.
> 
> You’ve been invaluable to me during my forays into angst, and whenever I see something remotely related to nature and cool phenomenons I instantly think of you and want to tell you about it.
> 
> I don’t know if you remember, but back when you were betaing HFGFfK I was agonising over the angst, and you joked about how I should write an AU where they’re monks “where no one fucks and everyone is just really happy all the time”, and I said “if I'm writing them as monks you'd better believe it's going to be full of repressed sexual tension.” So. Here we are. I did it. I wrote a Monk AU with as much angst and guilt and RST as I could cram into one fic. 
> 
> Despite my best efforts at research (can you believe I even did research for you!) this is probably wildly inaccurate historically, and I apologise to everyone beforehand.
> 
> My endless love and gratitude for my betas [Scarshavestories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scarshavestories/pseuds/Scarshavestories) and [Amelior8or](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amelior8or/pseuds/Amelior8or) for helping me work this out, for listening to me agonising over it and for screaming at me about it. I couldn’t have done this without you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️  
> Special thanks to [Sassy3](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sassy3/pseuds/Sassy3) for linking me the Book of Solomon somewhere in the writing process, which inspired me to include bible quotes. And also for helping me with a final read through when I couldn’t see the text anymore, and for being so kind and supportive and leaving a bunch of amazingly sweet comments. Thank you ❤️❤️❤️

Even for a clergyman, you lead a quiet life, Brother Draco. You rise in the middle of the night for Matins, you eat your breakfast in silence, you attend all the prayers throughout the day, and you never stop to think about the comforts of your old life outside the monastery. 

You mostly keep to yourself, perfectly content with eating, sleeping, praying, studying the medical arts and taking care of the monastery garden with all its flowers and herbs, because you know you don’t belong here, not really. You know you’re not like the others, that you crave something different to them.

You were sent to the monastery for education, to learn about the great predecessors and their way of thinking, to honour the family name. But you quickly found life as a monk freeing, the endless rituals and the monotony of it all liberating you by dulling the flame threatening to rise up from the embers of the sinful thoughts of your youth.

You’ve particularly fallen for tending the gardens. It’s become your own solace, watching the seeds sprout and grow into plants, digging up the earth, and watering the soil so it can blossom and nourish new life. It’s comforting in a way that you haven’t known before. You let yourself believe that the touch of the tiny leaves is the touch of another human being, your skin so depraved of contact that you can easily envision someone stroking your neck as you stretch to reach the top shelf and the lavender tickles you behind your ear. And sometimes, sometimes, when you’re alone and no one is watching, you let your hands wander over your own skin, tickling the fair hairs on your forearms, let your palm rest on your cheek and warm it, and imagine it’s the touch of another human, of someone you could love.

And if you sometimes think about how your existence could have been in another time, in another life? You quickly shove it away and don’t allow yourself to dwell on such thoughts.

* * *

It’s a beautiful spring day when your life is turned upside down. The March sun is peeking up over the monastery walls, thawing the patches of snow still covering parts of the ground, and you’re in the greenhouse, sowing the early crop of herbs, when the Prior comes looking for you. He tells you a new pilgrim has just arrived, he’s dehydrated and has cuts and injuries that need to be tended to.

You follow the Prior through the cloister into the infirmary. Of the hurt pilgrims and other wanderers that pass through here, you’re only assigned the most complicated cases. When you see the poor man on the bed, your heart clenches. He’s in a bad state: his clothes are torn and through the gashes you can see that his skin is severely hurt. You’re not even sure you’ll be able to save him, but you set to work at once.

He looks to be about your own age, and his handsome features do not escape you. Neither does how untamed his hair looks, wild and unruly, in sharp contrast to your own sleek straight strands, and you get a sudden urge to run your hands through it, but refrain. You have more important things to do, and it would look highly suspicious for you to perform such an act.

You start cleaning his wounds, and you try not to notice how surprisingly smooth his skin is, how dark it looks compared to your almost translucent hand washing it. This pilgrim must’ve travelled far, judging by the looks of him with his unshaven face and tanned skin.

After the cleaning, you put St. John’s wort ointments and wrappings of lavender on the wounds. He flinches in pain, even though he’s still in a deep sleep, and you try to be even more gentle so as not to disturb him.

When you’re finished, you can’t help but stay beside his bed to look at him for a moment. He looks so peaceful now, like the pain has subsided. Unconsciously, you reach out a hand to stroke his forehead, and that’s when he opens his eyes for the first time. 

You forget how to breathe. His eyes are a piercing green, and you feel like he’s looking straight into your soul. And you know, without a shred of a doubt, that this man, this stranger, is just like you.

“Are you an angel?” he sighs, almost reverent before he closes those beautiful eyes again. “Am I in heaven?”

You can’t help but chuckle, even though you know he must be hallucinating from the fatigue.

“No. You’re definitely alive. Barely.”

“Oh. Forgive me,” he mumbles, “my eyesight isn’t good, and I lost my glasses.”

“We can send for new ones if they’re essential to you, but for now you need some rest.”

He sighs deeply, looking like he’s trying to remember something. “I really thought this was heaven. I thought I’d go there if I tried to do penance for…” he starts, but trails off.

You swallow, trying not to think about how that sentence was about to end. “I’ll get you something to drink,” you say to avoid asking him.

“Could you tell me your name, angel?” he asks just when you’re about to leave.

“Draco. And I’m not an angel.” Not even close, you think to yourself.

“Draco…” he repeats, sounding like he’s tasting your name, and you find you quite like it in his mouth. “A dragon, then. Not an angel.”

You chuckle again, shaking your head, then you sit down beside him, taking his hand. “And may I ask what your name is, pilgrim?”

He smiles, his eyes still closed, but his face is so relaxed, so soft and open, and you drink in every line of his face. “Harry,” he breathes.

“Harry,” you say, and something stirs inside you. It feels familiar, like coming home, like breathing. “Harry.”

* * *

You fetch Harry water, and you feed him pottage, and you tell him about the life and the routines of the monastery. He’s weary, but he listens attentively to what you have to say before he drifts off to sleep.

When you go to bed that night, you have trouble sleeping. You shut your eyes firmly, trying with all your might to concentrate on breathing calmly, but there’s a restlessness in your body, and you only see him in your mind. You toss and turn and sigh, and you desperately try to ignore the reaction your body has, but it won’t do. You clench your fists so tightly your nails prick your palms, and you chant through seven Ave Marias and three Pater Nosters before you’re finally able to fall into a fitful sleep.

The next day he’s a little more spirited when you arrive, his skin a more lively colour instead of tinted grey. Your fingers tremble when you untie his undertunic at the collar to take off the wrappings and check his wounds, but his eyes are closed, so you hope that he doesn’t notice. 

“Can you tell me about yourself, Draco?” he asks, startling you from your examination of the cuts on his shoulder.

“I… What do you want to know?” you say, ignoring how your name spilling from his lips so casually makes your stomach flip. 

You find that the wounds on his shoulder are shallow, so you leave them to dry, moving on to examine the ones on his chest. He shifts on the bed to allow you to untie the rest of the tunic and open it up, uncovering the entire expanse of his torso. You bite your lip to keep from gasping, but his eyes are closed and he doesn’t seem to notice. You need to remind yourself that this is a strictly professional situation, and it is highly inappropriate of you to be staring at his body like this, but how on earth are you supposed to be able to concentrate with all of his exposed skin in front of you?

“Whatever you’re willing to tell me,” he says, sighing and then frowning a little when you take the dressings off the deeper wounds on his stomach.

While you clean the cuts and put fresh wrappings on them you tell him about your father, and how he decided two years ago that you should come here to study. You tell him about how you ended up enjoying being out in the gardens instead. You tell him how you started learning about the plants and their medical purposes, and he listens with rapt attention, sucking on his lower lip to keep from flinching when you pour essence of St John’s wort onto his wounds.

“And what about you, pilgrim? What are you willing to share?” you ask.

He chuckles. “Harry,” he says. “I told you my name is Harry.”

“Harry,” you amend, and he looks up at you with drowsy eyes, giving you a slow smile.

“There’s not much to tell,” he says while you decide to examine the gash across his hip bone. “My parents passed when I was a year old, and I was raised by my aunt and her husband. They… they didn’t approve of… well anything about me.” 

You notice there’s a bitterness to his voice, and you want to say something to make it go away, but your mind has stopped working upon seeing the hairs forming a path from his navel and disappearing under the sheet you’ve draped over him for privacy. His stomach is moving up and down as he breathes and speaks, and you’re hypnotised by it, and a part of you wishes that the fabric would slip down further. You have to shake yourself.

“For what it’s worth, Harry, the only person you need to seek the approval of is the Lord himself. And I believe He loves you.”

He snorts, making you look at his face, but you don’t dare ask him what it is he finds amusing.

“I think you still have that wound on my hip to look after,” he says instead, and you realise you’ve been idling in your task because you were too busy staring at him.

You feel your cheeks heat, and you feel his gaze on you as you reach out to take the cloth off the gash, and you notice that his breathing has become shallower, quicker. When your fingers graze the skin on his hip he gasps, his stomach tensing, and you can see goosebumps appearing.

“Forgive me,” you mumble, “this won’t take long.”

“Take as long as you need,” he breathes, relaxing back against the bed.

“So, Harry,” you say to distract yourself from how badly you want to stroke your fingers against him, “what made you decide to go on a pilgrimage then?”

You understand at once that this was the wrong thing to say: he stills under your hands in an unnatural way, and when you look at him, his eyes have darkened and his face has closed up. You wish you could take it back. However uncomfortable you were before, it’s nothing compared with this unease.

“I suppose it’s not my place to enquire about your relationship with our Lord,” you say in an attempt to smooth things over, and you decide to leave it be. For now. You’ve met enough pilgrims in your time here to know that this kind of reaction means he did something he needs to atone for. You want to tell him that whatever he did, he’s forgiven, but that’s not your place.

But you can’t deny that he very much interests you, and you realise you want to learn everything there is to know about him.

* * *

In the few weeks that Harry is under your care, you realise you’ve come to appreciate his company more and more. There’s something about him that speaks to you, and he feels more like an equal than any of the other inhabitants of this monastery, even though you’ve known them for much longer than you’ve known him. Even when you both disagree on something, you feel a connection to him, as if he understands you on a far more profound level than anyone has ever understood you, and you soon notice a constant longing to be near him. 

When you go to Lauds in the early morning sun, you wish he was well enough to join you. You take all the meals you can by the side of his bed, and talk about his life before he started his pilgrimage, but never touch the subject of what happened for him to set out on it. And you find that you don’t care what he did, that you’re happy fate led him to you, made you able to see him every day. Like a flower, you seek the warmth and light of the sun that is him.

You notice you laugh more around him, and even when you’re not with him, your chest feels like it’s filled with a blazing light, filling up every forgotten corner inside you and chasing away the darkness. 

( _Having purified your souls by your obedience to the truth for a sincere brotherly love, love one another earnestly from a pure heart_.)

* * *

“Now, repeat after me: rosemary,” you say, pointing at the bowl with pin prick needles in it.

“Rosemary.”

“And not…?”

“Not thyme.”

You give him an encouraging nod and try not to dwell too much on how your heart leaps in your chest at the pleased smile he gives you and how it makes his beautiful eyes light up. He’s well enough to accompany you in the garden, and he’s thoroughly enjoying it. You try to explain away the fluttering in your chest as joy of having a helping hand, of sharing something with him that’s so important to you. But you know, deep down, that if you allowed yourself to think about it, you’d see that it’s more profound than that.

He’s recently got his glasses and his enjoyment at being able to see properly again makes you pleased as well.

“It’s easy enough to mix them up when they’re dried, but they look quite different when they’re still growing. If you’re unsure, you can always smell them. Here.” You take a pinch of each spice, rubbing them between your fingers. “Rosemary is more woody, she likes to take charge,” you say as you lift your hand to his face for him to sniff, “while thyme is more gentle, lighter, playing in the background,” you continue, lifting your other hand. 

He gently takes your wrist to pull your hand closer, brushing it lightly with his thumb before inhaling deeply with closed eyes. It tickles, but something else happens to you, something begins to stir deep inside, uncoiling, and you draw a sharp breath that makes him look up at you, his green eyes even more piercing behind his glasses, his gaze so much sharper. He lets go of your hand as if burned.

“Forgive me,” he mumbles, “I didn’t…” He doesn’t say anything more, clearing his throat instead and turning his head to the table in front of you. You feel guilty for letting your distractions ruin his lesson. “And these are…?” he asks, pointing at the bundle of herbs hanging from the ceiling, breaking the silence between you, and you let your shoulders relax.

Stretching your hand out, you carefully graze the dried silvery green leaves with your fingertips, imagining you’re touching him instead, before you quickly extinguish that thought from your mind.

“Savoury sage,” you tell him softly. “It’s quite the cure all; it’s used for every imaginable injury and malady.”

“I recognise the smell of these,” he says, deeply inhaling the scent from the jar of little yellow flowers standing in front of you.

“That’s St John’s wort. I… I used them on your wounds earlier.”

You try not to think back to how it felt to have his skin beneath your fingertips, feeling his warmth and watching the life return to him. He looks at you, his gaze unwavering, but guarded. There’s something he’s refraining from telling you. You clear your throat.

“But today I’m not going to bore you with the different herbs and spices in their dried state, it’s time to transfer the seedlings I planted in March into the garden,” you say, showing him the tiny green buds sticking up from the soil in the pots.

He helps you carry them all outside, scooping up the dirt and watering the tiny plants with fresh water from the reservoir. They cower under the spray but soon stretch up, looking like they’re turning their faces to the warming rays of the sun and enjoying themselves. You laugh quietly to yourself at the thought of them as miniature human beings, and when you look up at him he’s smiling, his face open and joyous.

“You really love this, don’t you?” he says with fond amusement.

You feel your face heat at his words, embarrassment at showing him something private lodging itself in your throat. “I do. It’s like watching the circle of life up close. Almost like giving birth to these plants.”

His face turns somber.

“Would you like that? To have children someday?”

You look down, trying to swallow around the lump in your throat. “That’s… that’s not something for me to have.”

He studies you for a while, regarding you silently. Once again you get the feeling that he can see straight through you, uncover all your secrets. “Not even if you left the monastery?”

His gaze burns you, but you don’t dare look at him for fear of exposing yourself.

“I’m not… I have never met a woman with whom I would like to… _create_ children,” you say, hoping that he will ask nothing further.

There’s a moment of silence, and then quietly, almost inaudible, he says “Me neither.”

* * *

You’re out in the garden shed the first time it happens. It’s innocent enough: you’re stowing away rakes and shovels after the day’s work, the worn down wood smooth against your blistered hand, and you can feel how it’s still warm from his hand holding it. Then, when you step up on a stool to hang up the spades, you lose your balance and you tumble backwards, arms flailing to try to hold onto something to keep from falling. And then he’s there, his strong arms catching you, and your stomach drops out for entirely different reasons. You don’t dare turn around, you know your eyes would betray you if you did, and yet, he’s still holding you, even though you’ve planted your feet on the ground and you’re no longer in any danger of falling.

“Did you… did you hurt yourself?” he asks in a low voice, his breath sending shivers down your spine, and you can’t help but let out a gasp at the sensation of his chest pressed against your back.

You shake your head, you know your voice won’t carry if you were to attempt to speak.

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, closer now, his breath tickling your ear, and you bite your lip to keep in another gasp threatening to escape out of you. Then, he leans in closer, the tip of his nose pressed just behind your ear, his lips brushing the tendons of your neck, and you feel your body respond immediately, every sensation running through you, collecting below your midriff. 

You turn around.

His eyes are dark, the irises a tiny sliver of green around his wide pupils, his breath coming in short bursts. You swallow, your eyes never leaving his.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, every part of your body tensing, ready to take flight or to yield to him, you’re not sure which.

His hands are still holding you, resting on your hips, and he’s so close that you can see all the tiny freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose. Your breath comes in short bursts; you can’t seem to draw in the air properly. You swallow again, and his eyes follow the motion, then come to rest on your mouth. He licks his lips.

“Draco…” he starts, and everything around you both has faded away. There’s only you and him now in the world, only his eyes on you and his lips forming your name and you want to stop time and be in this moment forever, want to pretend that this is something you could do.

But then a bell chimes in the distance, shaking you both out of your trance. 

It’s time for Vesper.

* * *

You can’t let it happen again. This must be your ordeal of fire, this must be the Tempter testing you. It’s laughable how you always imagined it would be so simple, an obvious temptation, like a sumptuously rich meal tantalising you. But of course, He doesn’t work in those obvious ways, does he? Of course you were to be lured in gradually, so you wouldn’t notice until it was too late. Well, it’s not too late now, you’re on guard now, and you can’t, _won’t_ , let it happen again.

* * *

The second time it happens you’re out in the forest, harvesting new plants. The hepatica and the wind-flowers are blossoming and you want to pick them when they are just right. It’s Harry’s first time out and he seems to enjoy the openness of the woods, as opposed to the never ending stone brick walls of the monastery.

Your bag is almost full with white and blue flowers. Harry has delicately helped you put them into two pouches to keep them fresh until you have returned, and now you’ve both decided you’ve earned a break. There’s a little stream winding its way through the undergrowth, next to which you’ve spent countless hours sitting by yourself, but this is the first time you’ve wanted to show it to someone else. You have a special place that you’re especially fond of, where the stream turns and there’s a little fold where you can sit hidden from sight. There are thousands of wind-flowers scattered all over the ground, lighting everything up like tiny suns. Harry lets out a delighted laugh when you get there and promptly sits down with his legs folded under him. Your heart swells at the sight of him, and you know it was the right thing to do, to show him this place that means so much to you.

You sigh, closing your eyes, taking in the sound of the stream, seeing the little white flowers all around you in your mind’s eye. You want to save this moment, wrap it up and lock it away from prying eyes, and only take it out when you need to remember how good it can feel to be alive.

When you open your eyes, Harry’s watching you with a thoughtful expression, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth.

“Come, join me,” he says, grabbing your hand and yanking it, making you lose your balance and fall straight into his lap. 

You both laugh as you scramble to sit up properly, Harry’s breath warm against the side of your neck, and you feel goosebumps all over your body. You place your hands on his shoulders, pushing yourself up, and when you see his face it’s like that time in the garden shed, his eyes dark and his breathing coming in shallow bursts. You can’t seem to move. He licks his lips, and your eyes follow the motion, the quick flash of pink so tantalising. You should get up, you should get away from him, but instead you lean in closer, his green eyes getting blurry, your mouth hovering just above his.

“Harry?” you ask, feeling your own breath on your skin.

“Yes?” he breathes, closing his eyes.

“Why did you need to go out on a pilgrimage?”

He stills, his hands on your waist going stiff, before he pushes you to the side. When you look at him, he keeps his gaze firmly on the water running past you, drawing his knees up to his chin.

You wait.

You wait, because you’re not sure if he’s angry with you or if there’s something else that makes him shut it in.

You wait, until you realise you need to offer him something.

Tentatively, as if nearing a wild animal, you reach out and place your hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t have to tell me, Harry. But I do hope you know that you can trust me.”

His shoulders drop a fraction and he looks at you for a second before he resumes staring at the stream. Eventually, he says, “I did… improper things. With another man.”

Your breath catches in your lungs, freezing.

“What?” The word leaves you as barely more than a whisper.

“I was… There was this man, in my village. We used to… I used to help him take care of his animals, feed the chickens and the sheep and so on. And we became friends.”

You feel sick to your stomach upon hearing his words. The tale is so familiar, so similar to what you and him have had together.

“And…?” you choke out, barely recognising your own voice.

He turns his head, lifting his chin and looking at you defiantly. “I think you know what happened.”

“I don’t. Tell me.”

“We… We kissed. And I felt him. And I… I touched him… _there_. And he did the same, and we…”

You stand up so abruptly you almost lose your balance again, because you can’t listen anymore. You can’t stand to hear anymore of this, this _filth_.

“That’s a sin, Harry,” you say, your voice sharp as a whip. “What you did. It’s a sin, it’s against the Lord’s will.”

He laughs. It’s a terrible sound, it’s not his usual joyous burst of happiness, it’s short, entirely mirthless. “Oh, I know that, trust me. So before we had the chance to go any further, do anything worse, I left. I left him and I went to atone for my sins.”

“Well, obviously you didn’t learn anything, because it’s happening again, isn’t it?” you say, surprised to feel tears prickling in your eyes. 

“So it seems,” he says, looking defensive, but then his face softens. “Except…” he says, breaking off.

“Except _what_?”

“I didn’t love him,” he says, so quietly that you almost can’t hear it over the rushing of the stream and the chirping of the birds.

If you weren’t so offended, you might hear what he’s actually saying with those words, but you can’t focus because the indignation is flaring up inside you, the anger and disgust at what he did.

“We need to go back. It’s almost time for Nones,” you say instead of examining what this aggravation is.

Harry doesn’t look at you, his eyes are still fixed on the swirling water. “You go. I need some time alone.”

You try not to notice how his voice trembles, how tightly he’s holding his knees, and you turn and leave him on the brink.

* * *

Harry doesn't return for several hours, and you have to prepare the flowers for drying by yourself, the usually so comforting task of monotony now just feeling tiresome. You’re in the church for Vespers when the door opens and he shuffles in, his head bowed. He doesn’t look at you when you try to catch his eye.

You try to focus on the words, so familiar, you know them all by heart and they’ve always managed to soothe you, but tonight they slip past you unnoticed, because all you can concentrate on is to get Harry’s attention. You miss his presence beside you, miss the way the heat from his body is a comfort to you, miss seeing his lips moving from the corner of your eye.

You feel like you’re on fire, there are flames consuming you and he won’t even look at you.

After the prayer, he quickly disappears, and you can’t catch up with him because you need to walk slowly and solemnly. He’s not there for supper, and you miss saying goodnight to him more than you can say.

You have trouble falling asleep, and when you finally do, you have dreams of him. He’s standing a bit away from you and every time you try to reach him he disappears further and further away.

When you wake up, your body is aching and you realise you’ve been crying.

* * *

The next day it becomes obviously clear: Harry’s avoiding you. He averts his eyes when you get to the church for Matins, and when you try to stand next to him, he turns his head, softly asking Brother Lucas beside him if they can switch places. Your heart sinks at his words, but you know you’ve deserved it. You don’t know what to do to earn his trust again. 

And yet, there’s the problem of what he did, what he and that other man did. You can’t stop thinking about it, thinking about a faceless man with his lips to Harry’s, his hands in Harry’s hair, their bodies pressed tightly together. You try to block out the mental image by praying, by working harder than strictly necessary out in the garden, digging up the dirt until your hands are blistered and your back hurts, and still, when you go to bed at night, you see it again. And again. And _again_.

After a week of barely any sleep and no word with Harry, you’ve had enough. You corner him after breakfast, in the garden shed, where it almost happened the first time. There’s just the two of you. Brother Mark and Brother Matthew, who usually tend the graveled paths and weed them out, haven’t arrived yet.

“Harry,” you say, softly, like a prayer. “Harry please talk to me.”

He turns around, his eyes somber, but there is hurt in them as well. He keeps quiet, and somehow you get the feeling he’s been waiting for you to do this.

“Forgive me,” you say, plead, “forgive me for what I said, I… I wasn’t thinking.”

He gives you a long, hard stare, and then he casts his eyes down. “You told me I could trust you.” His voice is so small, you have to strain your ears to hear the words, but they hit you as if they were screamed.

That was it. That was why he was hurt. Not by your implied rejection, but because you let him down, you judged him after you’d told him he could trust you. The realisation makes your throat constrict in shame, forcing the air out of your lungs. 

“Harry…” you say, but you don’t know how to continue, how to explain the turmoil inside you. The longing, the loss, the guilt, all of it a confusing mess spinning around inside your head, day and night. You’re so very confused, so very tired.

“What do you want, Draco?” he says, firmer now. “Do you want to tell me what a sinner I am? Do you want to tell the Abbot about what I did? Tell me what you want!”

You shake your head. “You,” you whisper. “I want you. I miss you.” The words spill from your lips unplanned, but when you hear them, you know that’s the truth. You could go on beside him, continue being his friend, not doing all the things you want to, if you could only be near him, if he would only talk to you again.

Harry makes a strangled sound, like a sob slipping out unbidden, and then it happens, the thing you’ve been dreading, the thing you’ve wanted for so long: you lean in, and you kiss him. You kiss him, because you can’t stand not kissing him anymore. You kiss him, and you can’t remember why you haven’t done this before. You kiss him, and it’s all you imagined it to be, and more, because it’s _him_ , it’s Harry, and you’re finally doing this. 

It’s tentative, chaste, not at all at par with how your entire body sets on fire at the touch. Your first instinct is to draw back, to beg his forgiveness and say that it was a mistake, but his mouth is so soft, it fits so well against yours, sliding perfectly in sync with you, and you can’t ever imagine not kissing him, and finally everything feels _right_.

( _His lips are lilies, dripping with liquid myrrh._ )

Until you hear footsteps behind you, and you both break apart quickly. You grab the nearest item you can find - a rake - and Harry takes the watering pot and goes to fill it up. When Brother Matthew rounds the corner you’re both well apart from each other, but you feel like anyone looking at you could tell what just happened, could tell by the way you keep glancing over at where Harry’s standing, with butterflies and maggots filling your stomach.

You don’t talk about anything other than the plants for the rest of the day, but you think that he understands now, that he knows what you can’t explain. You hope he does, as he gives you a tentative smile across the table at supper. You make sure to walk out of the refectory at the same time as he, grabbing his hand and squeezing it quickly before you go to Compline. He’s finally standing beside you again for prayer, and in the general shuffling about afterwards, when everyone leaves, you lean forwards to whisper to him.

“Tomorrow?”

You see him shiver, and then he nods, almost imperceptible.

 _Tomorrow_.

* * *

The next day you ask the Prior for permission to go out and collect some hazel for the other monks to bind wicker baskets with, and could you take Harry with you for help? You don’t dare look at Harry to see his reaction, afraid that one of you will let something show, but the Prior doesn’t seem to suspect anything. He wishes you good luck and tells you both to take enough food with you to last the day.

It’s a beautiful day. May is almost here and this early there’s still a chill in the air, making the colours seem crisp and fresh, and as soon as you step out of the gates you feel like you can breathe more freely, like you can shrug a thick layer of dust off your shoulders. The sky is clear and the sun is warming your face. 

You walk side by side in silence, and when you’ve done so for close to half an hour, taking you far from the monastery's line of sight, you tentatively take Harry’s hand. Your heart leaps violently in your chest when he lets you. You’re not sure how to amend the damage you did by disappointing him and letting his trust down, but you tell yourself this is a start.

“Do you think you can forgive me?” you say eventually.

He stops and looks at you, the green leaves around you reflecting in his eyes and making them look more intense, more innocent. “For what?”

“For… for reacting that way when you confided in me,” you say, casting your eyes down in embarrassment.

He regards you for a long time, making you squirm in discomfort. “I think I know now why you reacted that way,” he says eventually, and then continues walking, not saying anything more than that.

You stand still, and watch him, watch the way he moves, so familiar to you by now. You’re not entirely certain he did forgive you, but at least you got to say what you needed to. Even now, you’re not sure if you were right to try to make amends, perhaps it would be for the better to have Harry keep his distance, but you find it impossible to stay away from him, unbearable to have him so close and not be able to talk to him. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, silently asking God what to do. You need a sign, something, anything, about what to do, about what’s right.

Suddenly a cold wind sweeps across your face, you look up at the sky as the first drops of rain start to fall, and then there’s a deafening crash as lightning strikes.

“Harry!” you scream as the sky opens and the rain washes down. You’re terrified that something happened to him. “Harry, where are you?”

You look around you wildly, trying to see anything through the thick curtain of rain, and then you hear a faint “Draco” coming from a tiny gathering of bushes in front of you. You sprint through the undergrowth and crouch down beside him. He’s sitting on the ground, curled around himself, shivering. You run a hand through his damp hair and he looks at you with wide eyes.

“The lightning,” he chokes out, his voice trembling. 

You nod, holding his face between your hands. 

“It’s not dangerous, Harry. I know it’s unnerving, but we only need to find some shelter,” you say, thinking hard. And then you remember: “The Hermit’s hut.”

If you recall correctly, it’s not far away, and huddling against the rain, you run together through the bushes and leaves, shielding your eyes against the pounding rain with your hands, Harry holding you so tightly it almost makes your arm go numb.

It takes a little longer than you expected to find it, because every time the lightning strikes you need to hold Harry and whisper encouragement in his ear until he stops shivering. You’re almost ready to give up because you’re so tired and out of breath you just can’t go on, but suddenly, a dark silhouette emerges through the curtain of rain, and you yank Harry’s hand, pointing your free one towards the hut. He nods and you both sprint as fast as you can, thinking that any shelter the hut can give you will be better than this deluge. 

The wood creaks as your feet hit the porch. It’s miniscule, clearly built for one person to fit under the leaking roof, and Harry presses close to you as you try the handle, and to your relief, the door opens to a small cabin. There’s nothing more than one room, but at least you’ll be dry and safe from the lightning. You step inside, Harry closing the door behind you, the sound of the rain subsiding into a gentle tapping through the ceiling.

There’s a fireplace in the middle of the wall to your left, and a little table with one stool right in front of you. You peer around to your right and find a bed shoved into an alcove.

“Where are we?” Harry asks behind you, startling you out of your thoughts. His breathing comes in heavy bursts and it makes you aware of how close he is, how much he smells of the rain and the woods, how his body heat radiates towards your damp and shivering skin.

“The Hermit’s hut. Long ago, or so I’ve been told, there was a man who used to live here,” you say, stroking your hand over the wooden panels, rough with neglect. The ceiling is so low you almost hit your head on it as you step further in. “He was originally a monk, but for some reason, he wanted to live on his own. So he built this little house for himself, with enough room for one person.”

Harry steps closer to you, still holding your hand tightly.

“Did he…” he swallows, “did he die here?”

You realise he’s genuinely worried about finding a body here, so you turn around, smiling gently and comfortingly at him. “He did. But he wasn’t alone, and the monks that lived in the monastery at the time buried him in the graveyard after.”

He worries his lip between his teeth, looking around the dark room. What little light is out there barely comes in through the dirty windows, but your eyes are getting used to it and you take the opportunity to take in his presence. He’s drenched in rain, water dripping from his chin, his hair sticking up at odd angles, and you smile at how it still manages to be unruly even when soaked. He gives you a quizzical look, but you just shake your head, biting back an ever wider grin.

He squeezes past you to examine the fireplace, and you try hard not to notice the scent of him drifting to your nostrils, heightened by the dampness.

“There’s some wood here,” he says. “If only we had something to light it with.”

“I have a fire striker,” you tell him, “I always keep one with me should I need one.”

He looks at you with astonishment as you hand him the metal ring along with the kindling, he’s too surprised to even say thank you.

While Harry sets to the task of lighting the fire you examine the rest of the cabin. There are a few kitchen utensils left: a little pot, a kettle, a plate, a bowl. Everything for one person only. You remember how Brother David told you that the monks decided to keep the things inside this cabin, should anyone need it some time, and that whenever someone passes here it’s customary to leave dry wood for the fireplace and mend any damage to the house.

The bed is not much more than a slab of wood with four legs under it, beside a cupboard where you find a pile of blankets. You turn around to hand him one, and the vision in front of you makes you gasp audibly.

The fire is already crackling merrily, and Harry is standing in front of it, dragging his tunic over his head and hanging it up on the only available chair in the room. You forget how to breathe. You’ve never seen anything as beautiful as Harry’s body, golden as it’s illuminated by the dancing flames, naked except for the stockings and shoes, which he quickly strips off as well, and your hands remember the sensation of having his skin under your fingertips, how warm and welcoming it felt, and how you never wanted to let him go.

“We need to dry these if we don’t want to get sick,” he tells you when he notices you’re staring, then he cocks his head to the side. “Or perhaps it’s a sin to be naked in the same room? Perhaps it’s better to die rather than to defy the Lord’s will.”

You know he’s teasing, but you cringe at his words, sharp like needles against you. His face softens when he notices your reaction, even though he’s taken off his glasses, and he steps closer, and you can see that his eyes have gone a little wider, his breathing a little shallower. You swallow, but you don’t break the eye contact, and neither does he. He steps closer still, reaching out a hand, and you hold your breath. He’s so close that you can see all the tiny details of his face: the fine lines around his eyes, the flecks of gold in his green eyes, framed by thick dark lashes. Your entire body is tense like a harp string, and you’re entranced by those eyes, his presence, the sound of the rain against the roof. He’s still looking at you as he opens your belt and drops it on the floor. He’s still looking at you as he grabs the hem of your tunic, and he doesn’t even need to ask you, you lift your arms in invitation, helping him drag your clothes over your head. He’s still looking at you when you’re finally standing in front of him, as naked as the day you were born, shivering slightly in the damp air that isn’t fully heated by the fire yet.

“Draco,” he says, his voice raspy and guttural in his throat, and it’s all that’s needed for you to succumb.

It’s almost violent, the way you kiss him. When you finally let go, you’re not holding back. You catch his bottom lip between your teeth and you grab his hair, running your fingers through the damp strands, angling his head so you can go deeper. He moans, and he seizes you around the waist, pressing your bodies flush together, and you feel what you haven’t dared to see: that he’s already hard, and now his erection slides against yours, making you gasp, making you feel like you’re falling through the skies for eternity.

( _His mouth is full of sweetness, and he is wholly desirable_.)

You push him away.

Harry’s eyes are wild, his lips swollen and shiny, and he’s panting, his chest heaving, and you remember how you used to refrain from playing with the hairs on it when you were taking care of his wounds. It dawns on you that you’ve been wanting to do that ever since, and you reached the end of your rope: you can’t go another minute without touching him.

You pull him closer again, taking it slower this time when you kiss him. He sighs, melting into you, and you start backing towards the bed, pulling him with you.

“Draco,” he sighs between kisses, his voice reverent as he lets his hands run along the sides of your abdomen. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

You laugh fondly against his lips. “There’s barely any light in here. And you don’t even have your glasses on.”

“I don’t need them. I wasn’t talking about how you look, Draco, I was talking about _you_ , the parts of you that you don’t show anyone else.”

You tip your head back to hide your self consciousness, and Harry doesn’t waste a second to cover the expanse of your throat with kisses, his stubble rasping over the delicate skin, working his way up to your ear.

“Please, Draco,” he whispers, whimpers, “I need to feel you.” 

Your face heats at his words, but you’re too gone now to really be embarrassed, aren’t you? You’ve gone this far, you’re naked and alone with him, and you’re letting him touch parts of your body that no one else has touched, ever.

He sits down on the bed, looking up at you with shiny eyes. There’s so much adoration in his gaze that you feel exposed in more ways than one, you have to look away again. Then he tugs gently at your hips, and you answer by straddling his lap, capturing his lips with your own, because you can’t tear yourself from him. He runs his hands along your back and it makes you shiver, it grounds you, lighting up every inch of your skin, and when he grabs hold of you to lie you down on the hard bed, you follow him, pliant in his arms.

And you shouldn’t do this. What you’re doing is a sin, an abomination against the Lord’s will, but his skin is so soft, his body so warm and firm and _real_ , and the way his hands run through your hair feels entirely too good to stop. His mouth searches for yours again, kissing you deeply, fanning the embers further until they’re a roaring fire inside you. But you don’t care that they might consume you, you’d welcome the wrath of the heavens if it means you’ll get to lie like this with Harry.

Slowly, he slings his leg around yours, hooking you closer, looking at you questioningly, but you can only nod, you’re too gone for words, too wrapped up in your desire. Then he reaches down between you, taking both of you in one hand and you gasp so loudly it’s almost a scream, your head tipping back of its own will. He takes the opportunity to kiss you right below your jawline, his mouth hot on you, his hand wrapping firmly around you and the hardness of him pressing so deliciously against you, and all you can do it try to remember how to breathe, because all else is forgotten: your family, the monastery, your own name, God himself.

“Draco,” he sighs, “oh, Draco, this… I’m…”

You’re still incapable of forming words, so instead you crash your lips together again, his tongue slipping inside your mouth. He moans loudly, his hips bucking frantically and then you feel it, the length of him twitching, his release spilling over his hand and onto your stomach, and this sensation is entirely new to you, it’s shocking and it’s glorious and you want it to last forever, his hand on you, around you. It’s so much smoother now, and there’s less friction now between you and him and it’s better than what can be strictly allowed, and you cry out helplessly as ecstasy fills every part of your body and you come against him, his name spilling from your lips.

Afterwards, you’re lying tangled together on the bed, your hand in Harry’s hair, letting the strands fall between your fingers. Harry has at some point managed to get up to put more wood to the fire and fetch a blanket to pull over you, and now he’s fallen asleep with his head on your arm, his heartbeat against your ribs, his even breaths grounding you.

You don’t know how to feel. Guilt and satisfaction are chasing each other’s tails in your head. Your body is completely boneless, and you’ve never felt this good in your entire life. This is the most intense experience you’ve ever had: lying here with Harry sleeping on you, his skin against yours, is nothing short of true bliss. But Leviticus clearly states that what you just did is an abomination, you’ve been told your entire life that loving another man is a sin, you’ve fought those feelings for so long. 

( _Both of them have committed an abomination. They shall surely be put to death. Their blood is upon them_.)

And yet, when you think about it, it strikes you as strange how quickly the weather changed, just when you were asking the Lord for a sign.

Harry stirs in his sleep, sighing and pressing himself closer to you, and you can’t find it in yourself to think about it anymore, not when you have this. You decide to let it go for now, to dwell on the consequences of your actions tomorrow.

* * *

The next day you wake up to the sound of birds chirping and the sun peeking in through the stained windows. You keep your eyes closed, trying to stay in the illusion that this is something normal, something you could have every day, to be waking up with Harry in your arms, warm and comforting.

He stretches slowly, bringing a hand up to your cheek and stroking it.

“Draco,” he mumbles, his voice so affectionate it makes your heart ache.

“Mmm.” You kiss him lightly on his fingertips, still with your eyes closed. You don’t want to wake up, don’t want to return to reality.

He sighs, letting his hand drop down to your chest. “You’re regretting it, aren’t you?”

You hold your breath, trying to think. But your mind isn’t working properly, you only know that you can’t regret it, because how can you regret sharing the best moment of your life with him?

“I don’t,” you tell him eventually, feeling him relax against you. “I don’t regret it, but…”

“Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say it. I know.”

You nod. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.

“But…” he starts, hesitating, “can I say that… I’d like to —”

“Don’t,” you say to cut him off. “Don’t say it. I’d like to too, but we can’t. It’s wrong.”

“It didn’t feel wrong,” he tells you quietly, and deep down you agree, but you can’t tell him that, can’t voice that thought out loud, because who knows where you’d end up then.

“Have you ever done that before?” you say instead.

“Not… never with another person.”

“Not even… not even with _him_?”

Harry props himself up on one elbow, and you open your eyes to look at him. He’s so unfairly beautiful in the scarce morning light, with his wild hair and deeply green eyes. You bite your lip to keep from kissing him, and his eyes drop to your mouth.

“You know, Draco, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were jealous,” he says with a slow smile.

You scoff.

“If anything, you should be thankful for him,” Harry continues. “He… What we did was the reason I left to expiate my sins by going on a pilgrimage. And if I hadn’t done that I never would have met you.”

You don’t tell him that you’re not sure you’re thankful for that, because you’re not. His presence has woken something in you that you’re afraid to let loose completely. You’re feeling more alive than you have in years, but with that feeling comes the crushing sin, tainting everything. His smile falters, and he seems to guess what your silence means.

You dress in silence, everything so raw and fragile between you. You don’t know what to tell him. You don’t even know what to tell yourself.

After having had a quick breakfast of what is left of your provisions, you start the hike back to the monastery. You’re walking in silence, your head still spinning with what happened the night before.

“I don’t regret it either.”

Harry’s voice startles you from your thoughts, and you stop.

“What?”

He turns to you, wrapping and unwrapping a stem of grass around his fingers. “I don’t… I don’t regret what we did either.”

You’re confused, unsure what he wants to say with this. Of course he doesn’t regret it, he’s always been the bolder of the two of you, hasn’t he?

He sighs, dropping his hands. “All my life, I used to think I was a sinner, Draco, that I was weak for having these… urges. That if I just punished myself enough, they would go away. And then I met you. And I know now, that… this isn't a choice. This is how I was made, this is how the Lord created me. This is how He created you, too.”

What he’s saying makes sense, but still, the Bible clearly says — 

You shake your head, deciding that what’s done is done, and you’ll do better from now on.

You _have_ to do better.

* * *

You try, you really try, but everything’s changed after this. You’ve always despised those who fall for the Tempter's tricks, those whose faith isn't strong enough to resist temptation, but now you know, there is no definite right or wrong. The Lord intended us to show love, didn’t He? So how could it be wrong to love someone as much as you love Harry? How could it be wrong to feel as good as you do when you’re with him?

Still, you can’t erase an upbringing of learning that what you’ve done with Harry is wrong, so every day you pray for strength to keep away from him, to treat him as a friend. But every time you come near him, it all crumbles and you can’t help yourself, you need to feel him again, and every second spent in his presence without touching him is a waste of time. 

The days go by in a frantic mess, a tornado of desire, of guilt, of Harry’s body so close to yours, of getting to know each intimate part of him. Of a thousand prayers at night to make it stop, of stolen moments in the greenhouse, the library, the different store rooms. Your breath in Harry’s ear begging him to _don’t stop never stop_. Always on guard, never at peace. You feel yourself slipping, you don’t know what’s right or wrong anymore, you only know that if you keep this up, it will end in disaster.

* * *

On Whit Sunday, the Prior asks you for a private word in his study. He looks at you serenely over his spectacles, but you get the feeling there is a grim reason he wanted to speak with you, because he looks like a snake ready to attack.

“I’m sure you know why I wanted to see you, Brother Draco,” he says, folding his hands carefully in his lap. 

Your throat is dry, it doesn’t seem to work properly, and your words come out broken. “Forgive me, sir, I do not.”

He purses his lips disbelievingly and tilts his head, giving you a sharp look. You feel like shielding yourself from his gaze, it’s far too invasive. 

“It has been brought to my attention that you and Harry the pilgrim have become, should I say, _very_ close friends during his stay here,” he says with a hint of a sneer.

“I… I see,” you say, trying to swallow. “Is there something wrong with that? Are you displeased with our work in the garden or with the medicinal plants?”

“Not at all! Although I would say it is highly unusual for a pilgrim to enjoy his stay here for as long as he has,” he says, his lip curling in distaste. “I am more displeased with the reports I’ve been getting that your alliance has taken a rather inappropriate turn.”

“I’m… Forgive me, I don’t know what —”

“Need I remind you of what the bible says about such alliances?” he says, cutting you off. “And need I remind you of what happens with those who disobey the will of the Lord like that?”

You’re entirely speechless. Who knows? Who told him? What will he do to you?

“The only reason I’m not sending you off is because you’ve served our community well, Brother Draco, and also because I don’t have any proof of this alleged subversion. So far, you only have the Lord himself to answer to, and His forgiveness to seek. But rest assured, if I so much as get a whiff of any unseemly behaviour, the punishment will be severe. Have I made myself understood?”

You stare at him blankly, your mind whirring in every direction at once, but you can’t seem to gather your thoughts properly.

“Have I made myself understood?” he says with a tone of impatience.

You nod slowly. “Yes. Completely.”

“Good. You may leave.”

You get up, tasting blood in your mouth, and stumble out through the door, catching a glimpse of someone rounding the corner further down the corridor. You hope that whoever it was didn’t hear what was said between you, or Harry’s safety will be jeopardised.

* * *

It’s raining the day that Harry leaves. You’re both huddling under one of the archways, away from prying eyes. It’s not big enough to give you both complete shelter, and your salty tears blend with the water dripping down in your hair, sliding along your cheek.

“Don’t go. Please don’t go, Harry.”

“You know I can’t stay here, Draco,” he says, looking fixedly at a spot beside your elbow. “You’re struggling. I see how it’s tearing you apart, and I can’t be the reason for this fight between what you want and what you think you’re obliged to do.”

His words feel like punches to your face. You wish he’d hit you instead.

“But why now? I thought —”

“I heard what the Prior told you,” he says sharply. “About us. That he knows.”

“That was you? You were eavesdropping?”

“I wasn’t —” he starts, but stops when he looks at you. “Yes, I was, I was listening because I knew it had to have something to do with us. And I heard my name, and —”

He stops himself again, grabbing you by the wrists.

“I want you, Draco, I hope you know that. I hope you know that I would endure all the punishment in the world to be with you.” You see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “But the one thing I can’t do is share you. Not with anyone. And I know… I know you’ll never give Him up. So I must leave. For your sake. And for mine.”

You don’t say anything, don’t try to tell him he’s wrong, because he’s not. He’s the only one who knows you better than you know yourself.

“You shouldn’t even feel guilty about what we’ve done! If you feel guilty it should be because you made a promise of chastity, not because you love — I mean not because you want to…” he says, his voice breaking at the end and he looks away, clenching his teeth. 

You can barely breathe for fear of saying the wrong thing, of pushing him away further, of breaking whatever is still left between you. 

“The Lord made me this way, Draco,” Harry says eventually. “I know that now. I tried, I tried so hard to be different, to be _good_ , but I can’t. I can’t change who I am. And I don’t want to.” You watch his throat work as he swallows. “I used to think I was a sinner, that I was weak, but I’m not Draco. And neither are you.”

A deep sob leaves you at his words, you’re gulping for air but choke on it. This can’t be happening.

“I love you Draco,” he says, quietly. “And I’ll wait for you. I’ll always wait for you.”

Then he grabs you and kisses you hard, fast, and you can taste the desperation on his lips, before he lets go as if burned and turns, walking away in long strides before you even have the chance to catch your breath and call for him.

* * *

You’re out in the garden, pretending to weed the crops, but really you’re staring unseeing before you, letting your hands work of their own will. You’re trying to find comfort in the feel of the earth against your skin, the softness of the plants you’re pulling up, like you used to before all of this. It will be better with time, you tell yourself. You just need to let the passing of time take care of your hurt and your guilt and your loss.

Someone is coming up behind you on the gravel path, a little too slowly for it to be someone walking, a little too fast for it to be someone working on it, and it surprises you to hear Brother Matthew muttering “You miss him terribly, don’t you?” when he is finally within hearing distance.

He hasn’t even mentioned Harry’s name, and yet your body responds immediately. You gulp for air, feeling like you haven’t breathed for a long time, like you’ve forgotten how to. “I do,” you choke out, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill on your cheeks.

Out of the corner of your eye you see Matthew nod. “I’ve been hearing — You’ve been calling his name in your sleep since he left.”

Heat rises in your face. Who else has heard you? Who else might have figured it out? Has Matthew figured it out?

“The two of you… you had something. Something special,” Matthew continues, tentatively. “And I don’t care — I mean I will not judge you if you did… something you shouldn’t have, but regardless, I… I could feel you were connected. Deeply. On a spiritual level.” 

You don’t answer, you’re too occupied remembering how to breathe, how to not collapse in a heap on the ground.

“I don’t know what that feels like, to have someone like that, but I think… I think it’s something to hold on to.”

And without any further word, he leaves you crouching on the ground, your head spinning with everything he just told you.

* * *

That night you lie awake, staring out into the darkness, Brother Matthew’s words playing over and over in your head. 

You used to think that the Heavenly Father is the only one who really sees you, the only one who loves you. But thinking about Harry fills you with warmth, and you realise he’s the only one on this earth who knows you inside and out and still wants to be with you.

All your life, for as long as you can remember, you’ve been inside your head, always analysing, contemplating, observing. But the time you spend with Harry is the first time you’re in your body, the only time you’re truly present.

The only time you’re truly happy.

With the reassurance of finally knowing what to do, you finally fall asleep.

( _As long as my breath is in me, and the spirit of God is in my nostrils, my lips will not speak falsehood, and my tongue will not utter deceit_.)

* * *

The following day you’re twitchy and nervous, but at the same time oddly calm and focused on the task at hand. 

When night comes you wait until you hear that everyone around you is sleeping, and then you slowly, quietly slip out of your bed and out of the dormitory. You have at least three hours before Matins, before someone will notice you’re gone. 

You prepared your satchel earlier and hid it in the garden shed, and after retrieving it you sneak off to the gates, praying that they won’t make too much noise as you open them. The Lord’s will, it seems, is on your side tonight, because they glide open soundlessly and allow you to slip out unnoticed.

You walk carefully in the dark for a while, feeling your way ahead, not daring to light the torch you’ve brought for fear that someone will see it from the monastery. It takes you longer than usual to reach the spot where you know you’re not in the line of sight anymore, but when you finally do you take out your firestriker and start hitting it against the stone you brought. The flame of the torch is a comfort: as long as you have it you’ll know where you are and where you’re heading, and you’ll be able to scare off wild animals. At least you hope you will.

You walk in the direction that should take you to the Hermit’s hut. You don’t know why, but something about it feels like it’s the place to start. If nothing else, it’s safe from animals, and you can stay the rest of the night there and continue searching for Harry tomorrow.

You walk for what feels like hours before you realise you’ve passed this particular tree before. You also realise you have no idea where you are, or where you’re supposed to go. You close your eyes, trying to focus on breathing deeply and not letting the fear take you over. 

You fail miserably when you hear a wolf howling in the distance, and you start running wildly into the forest, twigs and pine needles scratching at your face. But you hardly feel them, you need to keep running, need to find the cabin.

You almost run into a thick tree branch, and you duck to avoid it, but it makes you lose your balance. With a yell you fling your arm out to stay upright, drop the torch in the motion, and watch as it flies in a wide arch, landing with a faint sizzling sound in a puddle.

Defeated, you collapse on the ground, your legs unable to carry you anymore. So this is the end, then, you think as you slowly push yourself up to a sitting position. This is how you will meet your destiny: leaving your old life behind, seeking out a new truth, a new path, but without being reunited with Harry. It hurts more than you can admit even to yourself that he’ll never know you tried to come for him, that he was worth more to you than any reward in heaven. You draw your knees up to your chin as tears start spilling from your eyes, a loud sob escaping you.

You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there when you suddenly hear someone approaching, thundering through the thick undergrowth. Not an animal, someone human. You don’t dare to hope, but you look up anyway: a small ball of fire is weaving its way between the tree trunks, and behind it is:

“Harry!”

“Draco? What are you —?” he starts, but is cut off by a wolf howling in the distance. “Come on, we must get inside,” he says, grabbing your hand to help you get up. 

You don’t have time to say anything before you both start running. You’re following Harry blindly, tripping and almost falling on gnarled roots, your aching legs begging for relief, until you reach the Hermit’s hut.

“Get in,” Harry says, pushing you inside and closing the door behind the two of you.

It’s warm inside, the fire crackling merrily, a stark contrast to the cold panic you left behind. You’re both panting heavily, and Harry is so close, his body a reassurance that you’re still alive, that you’re safe now, finally reunited with him. Your body reacts instantly, turning to him almost unconsciously.

“Harry,” you breathe before you crash your lips together, with such force that you press him up against the door, making him gasp. His hair feels so familiar sliding between your fingers, and your heart leaps in elation at seeing him again, having him close once more.

You both start tugging at each other’s clothes, discarding them as you move to the little bed. When you both collapse on it, you have the entire expanse of Harry’s naked body in front of you, more beautiful than you remember it from your previous visit here. You reach out, sliding your hand from his clavicle, over his sternum and down to his stomach, and you can’t stop your hand from playing with those hairs, running your fingers through them, scraping your nails lightly against his skin. Harry hisses and arches his back, his hips bucking towards you, his hardness giving a little twitch.

You’ve missed him so much, missed being like this with him, so open, so vulnerable. Those stolen moments while you were still in the monastery were a mere shadow to this, and suddenly, you need so much more, you need to have him close, closer, as close as possible.

Your press yourself nearer to him, whispering his name. He looks at you with foggy eyes, pupils blown wide with lust. And yet you can’t look at him as the words tumble out of you in a rush.

“Harry, I… I want you. I want you inside me.”

He stills, stroking the hair out of your face and tilting your chin up to make you look at him, blinking. 

“Are you sure?” he says, his voice trembling.

You nod, closing your eyes.

“Look at me, Draco,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his thumb. “Are you really sure you want to do this?”

You look at him, trying to overcome your embarrassment at stating your wish so clearly. “I am. I’m really sure.”

He exhales shakily, kissing you slowly, tenderly. “Wait here,” he says, rising from the bed and walking over to the table to get something. You stay on the bed, missing the warmth of his body but enjoying the view he offers you. When he returns he’s holding a little bottle of oil.

“I… I took it from the kitchen,” he says, blushing lightly, looking ashamed. “Before I left. I know it’s wrong to —”

You sit up and kiss him, cutting him off. “It’s not. Not if it was out of necessity, out of survival.”

He smiles shakily at you, looking relieved, and then he joins you on the bed again. He pours a generous amount of oil onto his fingers and brings his hand down between your buttocks, massaging your rim, making you hiss with pleasure. 

“Oh Draco. Oh, you feel so good,” he whispers wetly against your throat.

You can’t answer, you’re too focused on his fingers circling you, on the sensation as one of them breaches you.

“Can you get up, Draco? I want to — I need to see what I’m doing.”

Silently you obey, getting up on all fours, supporting your weight on your elbows.

“Have you done this before?” you ask, because surely he must have some experience? This cannot feel this good if it’s his first time.

“I keep telling you, Draco, no, I haven’t. Not with another person.”

“With yourself then. You’ve done this to yourself?”

He kisses along the length of your spine as he slowly works you open with his fingers.

“I have. I have been pleasuring myself, imagining that you were with me, that it was your fingers inside me.”

His words make you moan, the internal image of him so arousing as instinct takes you over and you rock back to meet him.

He shifts behind you, grabbing the bottle of oil and pouring more of it into his hand.

“Can I?” he asks, low and husky. 

You nod fervently, and then you gasp as the tip of him grazes your entrance.

“Is this…? We don’t have to if…” he says, his voice trembling, and you know that you wouldn’t be able to stop even if you wanted to. This is the moment of no return, the moment that will forever change you, because you’ll never be the same after this. You’re about to cross a line now, and you don’t even want to look back.

“I want to,” you choke out. “Please Harry, I want to.”

His breath leaves him in a rush, and then you feel the soft hardness of him nudging against you.

“Tell me to stop if — I don’t want to hurt you.”

You make a noise of consent, and then you drop your forehead down onto the cool wood, focusing on breathing, on relaxing, on letting him in.

It does hurt, a bit, but in a good way, in a way that sends sparks of desire through your entire body. The stretch as he’s edging himself inside you, bit by bit, the way your body opens up for him, willingly taking the entire length of him in, the way you have to bite your fist to keep from screaming out, afraid that if you do he’ll stop this slow enjoyable torture.

“Oh Draco,” he says when he’s finally all the way in, his voice thick with emotion and want. He slides a hand up along your back, then down again to your hip, holding on to you, caressing you. “Can I?”

You nod again, too focused on the irresistible pleasure filling your entire body to be able to speak.

Slowly, oh so slowly, he pulls himself out a bit before he rocks back into you, and the feeling is too much, not enough, the best sensation you’ve ever had, and it makes you throw your head back as you draw a sharp breath.

“Does it —?”

“No,” you breathe. “No. Keep going.”

He lets out a sigh of relief and then he starts moving, tentatively slow at first. When you don’t protest he picks up speed, dragging himself further and further out before pressing himself in again, and it’s so good, so uncontrollably good, everything is this moment and this feeling of him inside you, filling you up so completely. His hand keeps travelling up and down your back, until he reaches around you and grabs you in hand, and you moan loudly, bucking into it with abandon. You’ve never wanted anything as much as you want this, now, here, never felt this burning desire about anything, ever. Your vision turns blurry and you squeeze your eyes shut, feeling a thousand fires inside you, every single one of them lit up by him, by his body, his laughter, his eyes on you and you’re not sure you will endure the flames, but if this is the way you go then so be it.

“Draco,” he whispers, his mouth just between you shoulder blades, the words a caress against your skin. “Draco I’m — I’m going to —” and you feel his thrusts becoming quicker, more frantic, more erratic until he pushes himself deep inside once, twice, three times. Then, with a groan spilling from his lips, you feel him throbbing inside you, the sensation of it overwhelming, and you’re following him in this whirlwind of heat, a silent scream of bliss tearing out of you as you follow him over the edge. Completely spent, you both collapse on the hard surface underneath you.

He slips out of you and you mourn the loss of him, but he turns you both on your sides, entwining his hand with yours and pressing his chest to your back, both of your hands resting over your heart, his breaths tickling your neck, and you feel entirely content.

“I love you, Draco,” he murmurs drowsily. “I can’t believe you came for me.”

“I’m… I’m sorry I didn’t go with you that night, I needed… I needed some time to myself. To contemplate it all. But —” you say, somehow not looking at him makes it easier for you to speak the truth. “I know now, I love you too, Harry. And that, at least, is not a sin.”

He heaves a deep breath, almost like a sob, and you turn around, surprised to see tears in his eyes. You kiss him again, trying to pour every confusing and exhilarating feeling into it.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to realise,” you whisper, feeling tears of your own forming in your eyes. “But I do love you, Harry.”

He gives you a shaky smile, bringing your lips together once more, making your heart beat violently in your chest.

“There’s something I have to ask you,” you say when you break apart. “How did you find me?”

Harry laughs softly, shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know. I couldn’t fall asleep tonight, something kept me up. And then I heard you. As if your voice was magnified, because when I went out to look for you you were quite far away.”

You stay quiet, not knowing what to say. You get the feeling that this was some sort of divine intervention, like the last time you ended up in this place. But surely, it must be your own wishful thinking?

“Let’s go to sleep now, my love,” Harry says, interrupting your thoughts. “We have a long day ahead of us.”

You nod, allowing yourself to snuggle in closer to him, listening to the steady rhythm of his beating heart, and eventually you fall asleep.

( _I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine._ )

* * *

“So here is the mugworth foot ointment for your husband, Mrs Baxter. I do apologise for the pungent smell, I’m afraid it’s unavoidable, but if you wrap his feet in cloth it should lessen the foulness a bit.” You smile at the woman in front of you, ignoring how one of her six children is kicking you in the shin. “And here is dried rosemary to put under his pillow to ward off nightmares,” you continue, handing over the tiny bag of dried leaves.

“Thank you so much, Mr Malfoy, I do hope it will help. We barely get any sleep now what with the screams.”

“If it doesn’t help, I also have pain relief remedies, but I only make those in small quantities and distribute them one dose at a time since they are highly dangerous if taken in too large amounts. But if you want any I can send one dose with you now.”

“Oh that would be _wonderful_ , thank you, Mr Malfoy! But… I only have payment for the foot ointment and the rosemary,” she says, indicating the bread and cabbages on the table beside you.

You wave her off. “No problem, Mrs Baxter, there’s no payment needed. I hope you’ll get some sleep.”

“Thank you, really,” she says, hoisting the baby she’s holding higher up on her hip. “Although, I must ask… Forgive me for being frank, but as a thank you, could I perhaps introduce you to my husband’s niece? She’s old enough for marriage and she cooks well. She could really be useful to you, Mr Malfoy.”

“Thank you, Mrs Baxter, that is awfully thoughtful of you, but I’m afraid I took an oath to never be physical with a woman when I chose the path of light, and I’m honouring that oath still.”

“Oh. Well, it’s such a shame, a nice young man like you, living alone with only your friend for company.” She glances out the open door into the garden, where Harry is working, singing quietly to himself. 

You smile again, careful not to make it into a grin at the thought of it being a punishment, having Harry as your only company. “Yes, well, one could say we’re helping each other stay away from the temptation of women, when it gets too overwhelming.”

She tuts, but lets it go as the oldest child starts examining your supply of dried chamomile, and she promptly leaves, leaving a welcome silence behind her.

You sigh, closing your eyes to fully enjoy the peace and quiet, only broken by the rustling of the wind outside and eventually the clank of the shovel as Harry puts it against the wall. You stay still, enjoying the moment, enjoying the sound of your loved one moving closer to you, enjoying the warmth of his body as he comes to stand tightly against you, his chest to you back, his nose pressing in just below your ear like it did in a tool shed so many months ago.

“Am I wrong to guess that you gave away remedies for free again?” he murmurs, letting his lips slide against your neck the way he knows you love.

You tip your head back, allowing him to continue further down. “She did offer payment for it but I didn’t accept it.”

“Hmm. How so?” Harry says, bringing his arms around your waist, pressing you closer.

“She offered to let me marry her husband’s niece.”

He snorts, and you turn around, his arms still bracketing you.

“Would you rather have had me accept her offer?” you say, tilting your head.

“Well as nice as it would be to have someone helping us around here, it would be difficult to hide how much I love you, so I think it was the right decision.”

You both laugh quietly, and he kisses you on your temple, making you sigh in satisfaction.

“So cabbage pottage for supper today? Are you very hungry, or do you think it could wait?” Harry asks, leaving tiny kisses along your neck.

You smile at him, bringing your arms around his neck. “I’m not hungry.”

And you know that it’s not going to be easy, having to hide who you are from the rest of the world, having to hide how much you love Harry. And perhaps you will be punished in the afterlife for this, for loving another person so much you can hardly breathe sometimes, simply because you were both born as men.

But, you think as you follow him into your chamber, at least in this life you’re not hiding from yourself anymore. You’re true to yourself, you’re true to him, and you’re true to the way the Lord created you.

( _Above all, keep loving one another earnestly, since love covers a multitude of sins_.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are lovely ❤️
> 
> I'm also [on tumblr](https://andithiel.tumblr.com//)! Come say hi!


End file.
